


The Spirit is Weak, but the Flesh is Willing

by cthene



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, That's Not How The Force Works, dubcon, possessed by an evil space wizard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe the Sith gods are having a laugh at his expense.  He did ask them, after all, to make him Skywalker's master...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit is Weak, but the Flesh is Willing

It is night on this side of the world that never sleeps, where tawdry neon cathodes do the work of stars.

 

On nights like this, if anyone should think to peer into a certain window at 500 Republica, they might catch a glimpse of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic himself. They might see him pacing the red granite floor of his office, a crystal tumbler of some violet spirit clutched in his distinguished hand, a look of murder in his usually kind eyes.

 

And if some unfortunate senatorial aide should have occasion to call upon him? They might even be able to feel the black pall that surrounds him, might even taste the cold poison that infects the air his lungs have touched, though of course they wouldn't recognize it for what it is.

 

It is on nights like this that Sheev Palpatine, Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and Dark Lord of the Sith, is prompted to remember a warning he received from his erstwhile master, Darth Plagueis the Wise, so many years ago:

 

“ _Those who say the Darkness is an easy path, do not understand it. It is hard, and only for the strong. It is the path of greatness. And in the name of greatness, there must be sacrifice.”  
_

“ _Of course,” said the noble youth, his soft hands folded in his plain yet costly cloak. “I understand.”_

 

“ _I wonder if you do, my boy.” The towering Muun said wearily, narrowing of his yellow eyes. “To truly know the Darkness...” he paused, as though considering how much to reveal at this juncture,“will cost you all your frivolous little pleasures...”_

 

The Chancellor swirls the contents of his glass, and gazes sightlessly into the blur of speeder traffic outside. Somehow, the habit of drink has stayed with him, though the pleasant burn of alcohol was one of the first things to go.

 

“ _Once you have tasted the Darkness, nothing else will be able to satisfy you. To open your mind to it fully, is to open a bottomless well of desire which nothing can fill. Knowledge and Power are infinite, and it is the way of the Sith to pursue infinity. Never to rest, always to hunger, always to strive, to know, to control, to consume more. Only the weak are content with less.”_

 

He tilts the crystal against his lips, and numbly swallows. It seems that more and more often these days, his control is becoming compromised, the Darkness shaking him from within, threatening to burst forth from its hidden chamber. He cannot afford to reveal himself, not yet. But soon, so soon. He must swallow the impatient dæmon within him just a little while longer, for soon all his plans shall come to fruition.

 

_At first, he had ignored these words. It was only after he had killed his master- murdered him as he slept- that he began to realize the significance of them, and by then it was too late. The Darkness had opened up a ravenous black hole at the center of his being, into which everything fell. Starlight could not warm him anymore, the sound of music could not move him, the touch of flesh could not excite him. Food tasted like ashes, water failed to quench his thirst. Even the thrill of victory began to recede until at last he was left with nothing- Nothing, of course, but the pursuit of infinite Knowledge and Power.  
_

Soon, the galaxy will be his, and his alone, to know in all its dimensions. There is only one piece left to complete his plan, and that is the linchpin, the keystone: The boy.

 

_But one day destiny delivered to him the only thing that could be worthy of his insatiable desire, the prize to exceed all others: The Chosen One of prophesy, a beautiful, sun-touched child. Plucked from Outer Rim obscurity by that insufferable Jinn, and dangled before him by the smug Jedi Council. He could hardly even bring himself to resent them for getting to Anakin Skywalker first, for in so doing, they had given him a sorely needed challenge. Finally, something truly noble to strive for. Something to test his capacities. Something to keep the gnawing emptiness at bay._

 

Crossing the floor again, he drags a heavy hand over his face, and sits down at his desk. The ultimate prize is now so close to being his that the mere thought it of makes his fingers twitch. From the outset, Skywalker's passionate nature made conflict between him and the Jedi Council almost inevitable. And yet the very same passion, which makes him so reluctant to let go of his own Jedi master, is what yokes him to the Order.

 

Indeed, Palpatine might already possess the boy by now, if not for the existence of Obi Wan Kenobi. An otherwise insignificant creature, scarcely worthy of his contempt. Even by Jedi standards, a prudish, miserable, self-denying zealot. And yet, for reasons he cannot fathom, the Chosen One _adores_ the man. It is easy enough to undermine Skywalker's trust in the Jedi Order, but to erode his personal loyalty towards Kenobi takes some doing. Oh, he has endured many a long walk through the shady senatorial quarter listening to the boy fretting and pining after some hint of affection or approval from that illiberal, frigid bore.

 

Palpatine curses silently, slumping in his chair. Nothing could be more infuriating than finding himself envious of a Jedi, especially one as cretinous as Kenobi. The most powerful being in the galaxy calls him “Master,” hangs on his every word and deed-! What is more, he possesses a nice enough physical form and a strong enough connection to the Force to enjoy the full benefits of this as few beings could. The right look, the right touch, and the boy would instantly belong to him forever. If only he weren't so steeped in twisted, life-denying dogma, Kenobi could claim for himself in a matter of moments what the Dark Lord has sought for years.

 

This is what disgusts and baffles him the most about the Jedi. They profess devotion to the Force of Life, yet theirs is in reality a cult of suffering and death. How can they claim to value life when they are all so eager to sacrifice themselves? And why are they so determined to eschew enjoyment? What is the _purpose_ of life if not the pursuit of maximum pleasure and advantage?

 

Sometimes, on nights like this, in moments of weakness, he wonders:

 

What do they know that he doesn't?

 

 

 

He closes his eyes, plunging steely mental fingers into the wild tangle of temporal causation and seeking out the slippery threads of his own destiny. Tonight, his rage and jealousy towards Kenobi are diamond-hard and clear, providing an excellent lens with which to focus his dark powers.

 

Tonight, there is no one except for himself on this entire level of the tower. Not even maintenance droids. He has made sure of it. There is no one to see his head lolling back against his chair, his eyeballs rolling around grotesquely behind their lids. No one to hear the uncanny gurgling sounds that issue from his strained throat as he drives himself deeper and deeper into the unseen world.

 

 _Kenobi!_ he screams into the void. _Unworthy philistine! He cannot even comprehend the value of what he has!_

 

The Darkness roars back, seemingly in agreement. Deciding to press his luck, Palpatine gives the strongest command he can muster. Gathering chaos to him, he forges it into a weapon of his will and uses it to pierce the fabric of reality itself:

 

_I deserve it! I would make use of it! Take what is his, and give it to me! Make me Skywalker's master!_

 

And then, before he can even react, the Darkness sinks its cruel hooks into him, and pulls. The room around him erupts into blinding whiteness, like the inside of a sunflare. He feels as if his flesh is melting, dripping from his bones in sizzling globs, his spirit gushing out like froth from a vessel of blossom wine. He chokes and thrashes, the pain is unendurable- And then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.

 

He opens his eyes.

 

 

 

The very first thing, is that he is standing. His desk and chair are gone, and indeed, he doesn't even seem to be in his office anymore. The next thing, is that Anakin Skywalker is standing in front of him, red-faced and yelling, though his mind is too addled to make sense of the boy's words.

 

And then, after that, there is everything else. Skin, bones, muscles, tendons. Midichlorians. All of them suddenly his. He looks down, realizing at once what has, despite its absurdity, actually happened. He knows the Darkness is vast, mysterious, and not to be trifled with, but this-! This definitely was not covered in his training.

 

He stumbles in shock, but his new legs instantly catch him. A lifetime of Jedi discipline has left Kenobi's body tempered and balanced like a blade.

 

“-talking to them about me as if I'm not even there! How exactly am I supposed to respond when-” Skywalker is carrying on, a bonfire in the Force of petulant anger and childlike hurt. Unfortunately, no one is listening to him.

 

Deaf to the other's complaints, Palpatine holds up handsome, squarish hands and flexes them experimentally, marveling at the pull of muscle in his arms and chest. Strapping, graceful, not yet forty, Kenobi is a fine human specimen if ever there was one. Even in his youth, the Dark Lord never had a physique like this. He has always been a soft aristocrat, as disdainful of manual effort as any other member of his class. But now- He feels firm, and smooth, and warm all over in ways he didn't even know were possible. He draws a deep breath, enjoying the expansion and contraction of mighty lungs, his muscled belly quivering in astonishment and delight.

 

“Are you even listening to me?” Skywalker thunders.

 

Palpatine blinks at him, struggling to orient himself. They are standing in a dimly lit and sparsely decorated dormitory, a narrow, rumpled bed between them. They seem to be in the middle of an argument. “Anakin-” he blurts. What would Kenobi say?

 

 _It doesn't matter what that fool would say_ , he thinks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other on agile, shapely legs. This is _his_ now, all his, to do with as he pleases. Yes, he will take full advantage of it as its previous owner failed to do.

 

Reveling in his victory, he reaches out to draw upon the Darkness- Only to find that his connection to the Universe is utterly changed. The Force moves through Kenobi's body like a cool shaft of pale moonlight, as tasteless as water, as soundless as space. There is no shadowy tangle, no chorus of dissonant voices. Instead of seeking to bend the energy field to his will, he finds himself relaxing into it, waiting to do its bidding. Confused, enthralled, alarmed, he tries to fight it, shaking the passivity from his limbs.

 

“Obi Wan?” The boy's mercurial gaze flips suddenly from anger to concern. “What's wrong? Say something!”

 

The sight of those blue eyes trained on him like that sends a powerful feeling washing through him, and it takes him a moment to identify it as longing. A gentle, melancholy ache, so different from the savage hunger the Dark Lord is used to feeling. _Of course_ , he realizes, _the Jedi starves itself_. He is wearing the skin of a being who has never known the shallow, sugary pleasure of instant gratification. Denied and suppressed for so long, Kenobi's desires have fermented inside of him, growing bitter and complex, like wine.

 

Which means indulging them will be extraordinarily satisfying.

 

“Anakin.” He holds out a beseeching hand. “Come here.”

 

“Are you alright?” the boy frowns.

 

“Do as I say, Anakin.”

 

“No!” Skywalker's concern vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced again by juvenile fury. “You can't tell me what to do!” he gnars. But the anger is a flimsy front. All he _really_ wanted in the first place was the other Jedi's attention. And now that he has it, the tremor in his voice gives him away. “Y-you aren't my master anymore!”

 

“Oh yes, I am,” Palpatine smiles. “In all the ways that really count. Now, come here.”

 

“Why?” the boy asks, wary, indignant, confused. Intrigued.

 

“So that I can touch you.”

 

“ _What-?_ ” he sputters, rapidly coloring, certain he has misheard. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean exactly that,” says Palpatine cooly, inclining his head. “I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. Come here, Anakin. Let me do it.”

 

“I don't understand-”

 

“It's really very simple.”

 

“But you don't-” Skywalker continues, stammering in denial even as he slowly makes his way around the bed. “You don't want- You would _never_ -” His eyes search the others Jedi's face, shining with wild hope. “Would you...?” he whispers.

 

The Dark Lord beams in triumph. He has guessed right. The boy _does_ want his master in this way.

 

And why not? Kenobi's face is pleasing enough to the eye, his body healthy and well-formed. Why shouldn't an amorous youth like Skywalker desire him? It seems only natural that this pair of Jedi, who frequently share tents in war zones, whose fit bodies throb with mutual attraction, should freely enjoy each other. The fact that they apparently never have is only further evidence of Kenobi's unbelievable foolishness.

 

He feels the urge to step closer, but quashes it, allowing the boy to approach him at his own pace. “You are so beautiful, Anakin,” he coos. “So powerful. Such a remarkable being. How could I not want you to be mine?”

 

“But-” Skywalker is a mere half-meter away now, his Force-presence swirling with fear and cautious joy. “I thought you were so disappointed in me. All those things you said in front of the Council this morning...”

 

“You know I have to humor them sometimes.”

 

“ _Oh, karking hells_... This is a dream, isn't it?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “But even in my dreams, you never talk like this!” He sways on his feet, wanting to come closer, but too afraid of shattering the illusion. “Y-you really think I'm beautiful?”

 

“The most beautiful life-form I've ever seen.”

 

“I- I think you're beautiful too, Obi Wan.” He blushes, golden lashes sweeping down over his cheeks. “Is it alright for me to say that now?”

 

“It only seems fair,” Palpatine smiles, making sure to let Kenobi's eyes crinkle at the corners in that way he knows Skywalker likes. “I'm sorry I've been harsh with you sometimes, Anakin,” he says, skimming the back of his knuckles, ever so gently, against the boy's face. “It's only because I want you to obey me. I want you to call _me_ 'Master,' and no one else. Is it wrong for me to want that?”

 

“No, it's- It's not wrong. Honestly, I don't try to be insubordinate on purpose,” Skywalker huffs. “I do value your guidance, Master. In fact... I think the reason I still call you my master, even now, is that it makes me feel safe- Like I belong with you. If you were nice to me like this all the time- If you were really good to me-” He nuzzles the hand against his cheek, eyelids fluttering dizzily, breath quickening with excitement. “I think I'd really _like_ to obey you...”

 

“Come here,” says Palpatine, lowering his voice in an intimate murmur. “Let me touch you.”

 

“ _Yes, Master,_ ” Skywalker practically swoons.

 

All too easy, the Sith muses, pulling the boy against him and attacking his soft lips. His own tendency is to be aggressive- He has ruthlessly dominated every sexual companion he has ever had- but Kenobi's body doesn't seem to want to let him. The Jedi's untouched flesh feels giddy and scared. Every stroke by the boy's hands is a novel thrill. Every kiss astonishes and delights him as though it were his first. This tender embracing is certainly not his style, but it's so intensely pleasurable, he can hardly complain. He pushes the boy down onto the bed, which surely belongs to one of them, and covers that warm, solid body with his own. The boy is writhing desperately against him, sobbing with happiness, showering him with hard, artless kisses. And then he is prizing open their bond, seeking even greater intimacy-

 

And suddenly Palpatine can feel Skywalker's presence spilling over into him, filling his muscles, nourishing his cells, bolstering his own connection to the Force. This is what it's like to drink from the greatest font of pure Force-energy known to civilization. This is what it's like to have the most powerful being in the galaxy mewling and begging beneath you. This is what it's like to bonded with the Chosen One.

 

How could Kenobi have resisted _this_ , held himself aloof from _this_? How is such restraint- no, such _self-loathing_ \- even possible?

 

“Oh, _Anakin_ -” he moans. “I can feel your power. You are stronger than any Jedi- Stronger than anything I've ever known.” Gazing down into those stormy azure eyes, the Dark Lord sees exactly which words he must say in order to make the boy his forever, exactly which words the boy most longs to hear: “I am so proud of you.”

 

 

 

He is struck by a most uncharacteristic pang of nostalgia, a stray scene from his picturesque childhood on Naboo. He remembers how his mother used to scold him for sneaking into the kitchen and pilfering cakes before supper. _You'll spoil your palate_ , she would say. And she was right. He's gone and done exactly that. The power of the Dark Side is so delicious, that everything else in life is rendered bland by comparison.

 

But no more.

 

Being in Kenobi's body is like having a palate that's never tasted anything but bitter weeds and river water. Every indulgence is new; Every feeling is sweet. Yes, to rule the galaxy from within this fine vessel will be all the better. As Skywalker nuzzles his face and encircles his middle, babbling promises of eternal loyalty, he is already formulating plans for the two of them to take over.

 

“Oh, Master-” Skywalker whimpers. “I love you so much-!” His arms squeeze harder and harder, rubbing their chests and bellies together through heavy Jedi clothes. “I know I'm not supposed to, not like this. But I just can't help it!”

 

“I understand,” Palpatine hums.

 

But he doesn't understand, not really. He knows what love looks like from the outside. He knows that it clouds beings' judgement and rules their actions. But he has no idea what it actually feels like. The drive to put another being before oneself is entirely foreign to him.

 

“I wonder if you do, Master,” the blushing youth sighs. He pulls away slightly, running a curious hand over his partner's chest, his brows knitting with sadness. “You keep everything locked up in there, where I can't see it or touch it. I don't know if your... _attachments_ are anything like mine. I don't know if you even have any. Sometimes, I feel certain you really do love me, in spite of your duty. But it kills me, not being able to tell for sure.”

 

The Dark Lord becomes aware of Kenobi's complex shielding the moment Skywalker mentions it. The Jedi's mind is a crystalline maze of self-deception. But then, he should have known. The elaborate psychic structure is almost impressive, in it's perverse way, like other forms of ritual self-mutilation. It not only protects his being from outside attack, it cuts through the inside as well, segregating certain kinds of thoughts away from the levers of action, separating emotion from reason behind a frosty pane of self control.

 

This won't do at all.

 

Palpatine cackles within. He will relish destroying this monument of Jedi piety. He will smash the glassy, iridescent walls, and learn what lies behind them. He will know all of poor Kenobi's forbidden passions. And then he will feed his new, innocent Jedi heart whatever it desires, until he has spoiled it rotten.

 

He throws a mighty mental punch... and the walls come down in a hail of glittering sand.

 

 

 

At first, it's agony.

 

At first, he doesn't understand what's happening to him. He is burning all over, struggling for breath, overcome with feelings for which he has no name. For the first time in his entire existence, Sheev Palpatine is crying. Actually crying, real tears of emotion- Not because he is trying to manipulate someone, or gain some rhetorical advantage, but simply because he can't stop. He can't move, he can't think, he can't speak- The Jedi is drowning him.

 

Kenobi is _filled_ with grief. He is smothered by guilt, and regret, and self-doubt. But above all else, he is brimming with this feeling, this incomparable feeling, which causes his heart to glow like the center of a sun.

 

“ _Oh, Master_ -” Skywalker is exclaiming. “I can't believe I doubted you!” The boy is kissing his brow again and again, the touch of his lips like that of some sweet, exotic blossom. “I can feel it now- You really do love me!”

 

Love?

 

The Dark Lord blanches. But when he searches his feelings, he knows it to be true. He is swelling, and choking, and bursting with... _love._ Kenobi's love for Skywalker. A mad, selfless, uncompromising devotion, unlike anything he ever knew existed in the world.

 

_The loss of his master was bound to change him in any case- But it was taking a padawan of his own which represented the definitive end of Obi Wan Kenobi's youth, which slammed the door on his innocence, which forced him to overcome all his childish anxieties and resentments and assume complete responsibility. He expected that- overcoming his own bitterness towards the child- to be the greatest challenge, but he was entirely mistaken. He was pleased to find that bitterness gave way easily to fondness- But he was utterly unprepared for the way that fondness deepened and shifted, slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, into a dangerous, all-consuming attachment. By the time Anakin was a comely, golden-skinned young man, there could be no more denying it. The boy had become the center of his emotional life, almost the sole object of his soft, human feelings. As a Jedi, he was unacceptably compromised. He knew that to save his pride, his joy, his only beloved child, he would let a billion other beings die._

 

_And so, without exorcizing it entirely, he locked the love away. With painstaking, disciplined effort, he cordoned it off from the rest of his mind. It was paramount that he conceal his attachment to Anakin from Anakin himself, for who knew how his volatile padawan would react. It might change their relationship in ways that would undermine the boy's training. And Anakin's training- his education, his wellbeing, his future- was everything to Obi Wan, the great product of his life's labor, the purpose of everything he did._

 

_He kept the love buried deep inside, where no one else could see it, but where he could still reach it, his very own forbidden treasure. As dangerous as he knew it was, he couldn't bear to give it up entirely. Sometimes, he would nuzzle the bright marble of it against the surface of his consciousness, just to warm himself. During the darkest days of the war, it gave him the strength to keep fighting when nothing else could._

 

Palpatine looks down at Anakin Skywalker snuggled beneath him, and suddenly he is seeing the young man through Kenobi's eyes- Not as an instrument of power, a prize to be won, or a thing to be consumed, but as a precious, irreplaceable living being. Weeping, he takes that golden head in his hands and kisses that immaculate brow, as the litany of Kenobi's deepest feelings plays inside his mind:

 

_Oh Anakin, my Anakin. My mission, my purpose, my beautiful boy. The only child I will ever have. The only love I will ever know._

 

All thoughts of galactic domination have fled him. Power and control, all the things he thought he wanted, pale in comparison to this sublime joy. What madness! He actually feels _happy_ to live his life on behalf of another, to give his entire existence over to the care, and protection, and guidance of this other being. Where the gaping black hole of his own heart was, Kenobi's deep, pure heart beats within him, completing and fulfilling him as nothing ever has before.

 

But alas, he has awoken the Jedi's spirit, suppressed until now by his own invasive presence. Though unable to defend itself from the Dark Lord's usurpation in the first place, Kenobi's mind has returned with new strength. Palpatine can feel it pushing him out, driving him back into the Dark Side's cruel embrace. His muscles ache with the effort of struggling, until at last, they are no longer his.

 

 _You will stay away from my padawan,_  the Jedi tells him, with calm finality. _You will not touch him with your evil._

 

 _Please, no!_ The Dark Lord finds himself begging. _Don't send me back- I cannot bear to face the emptiness again!_

 

_You are poisoning me. Though I might pity you, I still must cast you out._

 

There is bright-white, and burning, and then there is nothing, and then there is less than nothing, and then there is darkness.

 

He opens his eyes.

 

 

 

The Supreme Chancellor of the Republic wakes to find himself seated at his desk in his luxurious executive office, before a blazing fuchsia Coruscant sky.

 

There is a huge shard of crystal embedded in his palm. His hand must have crushed the glass while he was sleeping. He looks down and curses, finding the front of his best embroidered doublet splattered with dark purple drink.

 

Foolish of him, to get lost in a trance like that. It must not have been very illuminating either, since he can't even remember what it was about. He sighs, contemplating his wet lap, and gazes out at the curling golden clouds above the pink horizon. He tries to summon the Darkness to him, but it slips out of his grasp like smoke. He had a good rage worked up earlier, but he can't seem to muster much anger now.

 

Instead, he feels strangely... bereft.

**Author's Note:**

> I slipped and fell on my keyboard, and this fic happened.


End file.
